Sonata
by crescent dusk
Summary: As Chiaki Shinichi, top graduate of the nation's most prestigious music conservatory and former star of the Tokyo Metropolitan Symphony Orchestra, fled the dusty little kindergarten classroom, he reflected that this was the first time he had ever been booed off the stage.
1. Chapter 1

This is a birthday gift for Daedreamer, though by looking at her profile, it's hard to tell if she's actually alive anymore considering some stories haven't updated for six years. This will follow the structure of a four-movement classical sonata structure. Here is the first chapter-enjoy!

Disclaimer: If I owned Nodame and Chiaki, why would I go to piano lessons anymore?

* * *

First movement: _Allegro agitato_

The sun was shining, the trees were swaying, the birds were singing, and Chiaki was decidedly not. The Japanese village was secluded and picturesque, with its untainted air and quaint little cottages beside the seaweed farms. It was absolutely insufferable. It was the renowned virtuoso's last hope. It was not looking bright—or rather, it was a wonderful day out, and Chiaki just knew that the people here were too happy and bubbly to suit his needs. One had to maintain some degree of dissatisfaction to truly appreciate art, after all.

And where was his guide, anyway? He checked his watch. 6:55 p.m. He pulled out his phone to check the email. He first noticed that the nearest Wi-Fi network was from the last town he had visited, and then the screen shut off just after he had activated mobile data. He tucked the useless device into his pocket, only to find that when he subsequently thrust his hands into those pockets, the effect was altogether more awkward than the casual waiting position he had hoped to adopt. Opting instead to cross his arms and lean coolly against a pillar outside the train station, Chiaki felt a tick forming on his forehead in proportion to the tick-tick-tick of his watch. He was certain that someone from the school was supposed to greet him at the station at 7:00 p.m.

It was 7:01. Chiaki hated disorganized people. His fellow passengers poured out of the station and went their own ways, some throwing themselves into strangleholds and others climbing into cars even though they had burst into tears at the sight of the driver. Some people were rather irrational, he thought, and others were downright disgusting.

It was 7:20. He tried to distract himself by playing his favorite music in his head; music was supposed to be calming, after all. Except "Rage over a Lost Penny" was all that came to mind and Chiaki found himself protesting that he was not that petty.

At 7:22 precisely, a blur of purple and yellow swept towards Chiaki and tripped over his bag with a strange squawk-like sound that, if spelled out as one would spell a dog's bark, would roughly resemble, "Mugya!"

Chiaki did not jump and stumble a few steps before regaining his balance, and he most definitely did not sacrifice his calm expression for the startled look a cat might have upon losing its balance.

"Watch where you're—" Chiaki halted, struck by the intensity of the gaze on him. The blur, now identified as something resembling a woman, stared at him with bright— _gooey_ —eyes. Chiaki was offended; it was not the first time his face had made someone cry, but that did not mean it was a pleasant experience.

"Gyaboo…you're gorgeous."

Chiaki's jaw twitched. He snatched up his case and bag and strode off towards the sunset. Well, he tried to, but the effect was altogether ruined as the bag would not budge. He tugged again. He looked down, and the woman-like thing gripped the strap tighter. He wondered what would happen if he used more force; would It just drag after him the whole way back inside and onto the first train to Tokyo?

"I'm Nodame," It said. "Actually, that's not my _real_ name, but I won't tell that to you, yet." It emitted a maddening giggle. "Are you Shinichi-kun?" It held out one hand and smiled, as if introducing Itself to someone in an utterly normal setting.

Chiaki was so astounded that he was not capable of coherent thought, speech, or action. So, of course he chose the most straightforward, yet utterly irrational action, and shook Its outstretched hand. Thankfully, the contact seemed to revive his brain and he tried to salvage the situation by emphasizing, " _Chiaki_ Shinichi." Then, after a pause, "Pleased to meet you."

It gripped his hand and pumped it up and down before he snatched it away. "Wonderful! The school's two minutes from here, so follow me!" It stood and dusted off Its dress—lilac with a daffodil print—and walked away, swaying Its hips in an utterly ridiculous manner.

Chiaki stared until he realized It had gone quite a ways, and ran to catch up. He trailed behind at the perfect distance at which he could follow easily, but was spared the necessity of conversing. After about two and a half—not two—minutes of trudging along the dusty trail along what seemed to be the only main road in the town, they arrived at a...Chiaki wasn't sure how to describe it, but he was firmly against calling it a school. It was more of a decrepit cube plonked down in a field overrun by dandelions and, worse, snot-nosed children.

"Nodame-sensei!" A grimy-looking boy ran up and grabbed the hem of Its skirt in his grubby hands.

"Goro-kun!" It greeted. "Have you been playing catch with Toshi-kun?"

A swarm of similar terrors surged towards them and Chiaki almost backed into It, simply because It was the lesser of two evils and not because he was hiding behind It or anything.

"Isn't it past school hours?" he bit out.

"What does that matter?" It turned to face him, brushing against his back. "Kids play all the time, not just during school; didn't you know?"

Chiaki bristled at the patronizing tone. Didn't normal villages have playgrounds for this sort of thing? More importantly, he had counted on getting a few hours of quiet practice time at the venue that night, and he just knew that a baseball would come flying through a window in the middle of his rehearsal, judging from the way his day had gone so far.

"Well, would you be so kind," he said, "to show me around?" He arranged his face into something that would hopefully pass for a smile, while making sure it only just passed.

It didn't seem to notice, and instead seemed to melt from overexposure to tenderness. "Have fun with Toshi-kun!" It hugged the boy and skipped up the pebbly path to the door. It slammed shut behind them, causing a cloud of dust to float up.

"The springs are a bit stiff," It explained as Chiaki sneezed. He ignored the dirty Kleenex It offered him and instead pulled out his handkerchief.

"Ta-da!" It stopped outside a room—there were no doors to any of the classes—and held Its hands behind Its back, watching Chiaki expectantly. He peeked in. He was not impressed. He was surprised, however, that he was almost sorry when It assumed a profoundly sorrowful expression. There was none of the overly dramatic pouting or tearing up he would have expected of It, and somehow, he almost felt guilty for scoffing at the room—hers, presumably—she had been so eager to show off.

It was small and shabby, like everything else in the village. About twenty desks were crammed in, arranged in random groups in the space and littered with crayons, paintbrushes, safety scissors, and other art supplies that Chiaki had bypassed in his pursuit of _real_ art. Hideous pictures and paintings covered the walls until he could hardly tell that the wallpaper was peeling. The chalkboard—those were rare in schools nowadays—boasted simple arithmetic and expressions such as 1+1=3. And small clay figures, no doubt conceived by rising modern artists, sat precariously on…a piano.

Chiaki instantly lost whatever tenderness had pierced his heart for the past minute. He set his bag on the ground and marched to the wretched piece of wood. The finish was scratched beyond belief and the middle pedal seemed to be chronically depressed. He lifted the keyboard cover. The keys were yellowing and chipped, and the dust covering the lid where it was unoccupied by pottery dashed all Chiaki's hopes of finding the piano tuned.

Chiaki whirled around. "Is this what you call a piano?"

It looked down.

"How could you possibly—" He waved his hand toward the piece of wood. "I was told there was someone in charge of the music department! Who let the piano become—this?"

Its arms hung at its sides. Its fingers made minute movements against the fabric of Its dress.

"Who's in charge of the music department?"

Its fingers stilled. "I am."

Chiaki was stunned. He remained silent as the rage surged in him.

"I tried."

"You incompetent fool! You—you—how dare you call yourself a musician when all you have to show for it is— _this_!" His hand slammed onto the keys and even in his rage he could tell the bass was weak, but this was secondary to the shocking clang that pierced the air—the clang of a broken string.

"The least you could do is have it tuned! How will my accompanist possibly play on this? The middle pedal doesn't work, a string is broken, the keys are falling apart—" A clay violin teetered on the edge of the piano and Chiaki's hand shot out to grab it as it fell. He felt rather foolish as he realized he should have let it shatter, but set it back and slammed the keys again for good measure.

"Where am I even supposed to perform tomorrow? Isn't there a gymnasium, at least? Oh, wait, they probably just go outside. Am I playing right here?" His jaw dropped when It nodded. He had meant it as a sarcastic reprimand.

He readjusted his violin case on his shoulder and snatched up his bag before storming out. He was almost surprised It didn't come after him, but he didn't care as he swept past the dumbly gazing children and back onto the main road. He found his hotel—or rather, the only inn in town—just a block further down. By the time he got to his room, he almost considered the small bed and scuffed carpets a blessing. Spotting a power outlet by the patched-up curtains, he plugged his phone in and sighed as it started charging; that the room had electricity came as a pleasant surprise. What was also shocking, but not quite as pleasant, was the text message waiting for him.

 _Emergency back in Tokyo, can't make it—sorry sorry sorry Chiaki!_

Chiaki simply let the phone fall to the floor and threw himself onto the bed. "I hope Tanya freezes to death in Siberia one day," he thought. Then, "This pillow's too high."


	2. Chapter 2

Second movement: _Andante improvisando_

"Maestro—"

"No, Chiaki-san. Miss Rui cannot make it, so we need Miss Tanya for tonight. In fact, I think this is a wonderful opportunity for you to practice—"

"Fine, just leave me stranded here with no accompanist, no—"

"Well, the whole point of this exercise was to remind you of the most basic principles of performing and _feeling_ the joy of sharing music," the conductor cooed. "You're traveling through the countryside, experiencing the most down-to-earth, original way of playing your instrument for the joy of the audience, watching the faces of disadvantaged schoolchildren light up—"

"In case you haven't noticed, I haven't been having much success with that—"

"Ah, that is why you must enjoy this last performance—"

"Under the worst circumstances by far! The shabbiest village, the snottiest kids, the dustiest venue, the clumsiest coordinator, and the absent-est accompanist!"

"Now, now, Chiaki-kun, absent-est is not a word—"

"And after two months of abject failure at getting poor, unenlightened children to appreciate Sibelius's Violin Concerto, with only a piano accompaniment—sacrilege—you expect me to transform into some child-pleasing clown on my last chance?"

"No, Chiaki-kun," the conductor explained, "You are honing your performance instincts and charisma; you are getting back in touch with the music and the meaning the composers wish you to show the audience; you are taking a refresher course on what it means to be a true musician!"

"Great, but that doesn't change the fact that I have no accompanist for the performance in eight hours, and my future hinges upon this one performance!"

"Well, I wouldn't be so melodramatic about it, but I'd say that is mostly accurate."

Chiaki considered saying something more, but decided instead to express his opinion by hanging up. Just as he was about to press the red button, his phone screen kindly informed him that the other side had already ended the call. It also showed the large, friendly numbers, 7:13, in the top right corner. Chiaki hated early mornings. Especially when the birds sang, like they had been doing outside his window for the 13 minutes he had been up and yelling at his phone. His phone thought he should have yelled at the birds, since they were the reason for his anger.

Chiaki dug out his copy of the piano score for the program. It wasn't impenetrable, but he doubted anyone in this miserable seaweed marsh would be able to perform it. He didn't need a spectacular accompanist, but he needed _something_. If he could find a piano teacher…

A blur—not a name or a face or an image, just a blur—presented itself to his mind. He shook his head. He needed a professional; even then, it would be difficult to pull off on such short notice. The town had to have one or two proper teachers, right?

He glanced out the window. Footpaths winded through cottages and seaweed farms, dotted with workers who had been up for hours. Children ran in and out, playing on the street or fetching eggs from the chicken coop. Chiaki sighed and threw on a coat. He had always been ready to make sacrifices for his career, but, like a good and hateful lawyer, life had found a loophole in his determination.

One or two teachers were in their rooms already, but It had not yet arrived. Chiaki slipped into Its room and, finding no chair that could hold more than half his butt, sat on a desk by the open window. He swung his legs, wondering where It sat in the Lilliputian room. Two boys were playing outside, throwing a scuffed, dirty baseball around the dandelion-covered field. As he watched, the ball flew over the shorter boy's head, towards Chiaki's face. He ducked, nearly falling off the desk in his rather undignified attempt to protect his pretty features. The ball whizzed past him and crashed into something, judging by the ensuing shatter.

Running footsteps came down the hallway.

"Goro-kun, is everything okay? What was that just now?"

"Sensei! There was a strange man in our class and he's been there for ten minutes and wouldn't leave, so I shot the ball at him and he shrieked and fell off the desk!"

"Wow, really? Goro-kun, that's amazing! You're a superhero!"

It and the boy leaped into the room, prepared for battle. Chiaki decided it was too early in the morning to protect his honor and argue that he did not shriek and fall off the desk. Instead, he face-palmed and slumped to the floor.

"Mugya, it's you!" It dropped Its ridiculous fighting stance and approached, staring at him as if he were a rare insect.

"Oh, it's the snotty mister from yesterday!"

Chiaki glared at the snotty little boy.

"Alright then, be careful, sensei! Toshi's waiting for me outside so see you!" He threw the ball out through the window and disappeared from sight.

It stood up and crossed Its arms. "Chiaki-san," It said, "Might I advise you that it is highly improper to enter a young lady's room without permission?" It giggled. "Nodame is—"

"Okay, look." Chiaki stood up. "Sorry about that, but I have something serious to discuss right now."

"Oh? Something serious…" It muttered, smiling and batting Its eyelashes.

Chiaki ran a hand through his hair. "Right, um…look. So, my accompanist can't make it today."

It tilted Its head.

"And, well, you're the only person I know of around here who can play so much as _Mary had a Little Lamb_ , so I have no choice but to ask you to accompany me."

It raised an eyebrow.

"Look, I wouldn't have asked if I had any choice, alright? But I can't think of anything else."

"Chiaki-san." It sat down on a desk, paying no heed to the fact that It was wearing a skirt. "Didn't your kindergarten teacher teach you how to ask nicely?"

Chiaki's cheeks burned. He wanted to throw a tantrum and stomp out as he always did when things went wrong.

 _No one will cater to you this time; it's your last chance._

He took a deep breath. "Please."

It looked away. "I can't." Its voice had taken on a different timbre; no longer joking, no longer something to take lightly. Something about It, sitting on a child's desk, hands fidgeting, eyes turned towards the piano, all of a sudden made Chiaki hate himself.

"Sorry." The word was out there. He hoped It would say something. It didn't. He wet his lip. "About yesterday, I mean."

It remained silent.

"I was too harsh; it's not your fault the school is poor and no one knows how to do it properly—"

"That's what you think, isn't it?"

Chiaki stopped. Had he said something wrong again?

"You think this village is so poor it's a wonder how humans live here and the kids are worthless little brats and we're all just ignorant, vulgar, uneducated fools who don't know a thing about music, am I right?"

Chiaki blinked. A flame spread through his chest; it burned, like the sting of shameful tears, but it left in its wake an almost pleasurable sense of warmth, of release, of catharsis. He stared at the girl before him, trying so hard not to cry; he felt the cleansing burn through his chest; he wanted to laugh. He wanted to laugh with euphoric abandon at the ridiculousness of an ignorant, vulgar, uneducated fool of a kindergarten teacher doing what the best conductors and music professors of the country had failed to do: show Chiaki Shinichi what an utter tosser he was. It felt almost gratifying, in fact.

But he did not laugh, because _she_ was still miserable and he figured he had about five minutes until snotty little brats would come streaming in.

"Sorry, really. You're quite…special. Please, you would be doing me a huge favor if you would accompany me."

Chiaki instantly felt silly when she turned her wide, glistening eyes towards him.

"Really? Nodame is special to you? Yes, I would do anything for you!"

He shifted as she approached, arms open as if expecting a hug.

"Great, um…thanks." He shoved the score into her hand. "I know it's short notice, but please try your best and I'll see you at about 1:30." He made for the exit. "I think your students are arriving now, so I'll be off. Thank you!"

He ran out, ignoring the stares of the children entering. He wasn't sure if the nauseating, euphoric, ecstatic beat of his heart was due to the exercise, the humiliation, the self-discovery, or the warmth of her surprisingly soft hand as her fingertips brushed against his in the exchange of music.


	3. Chapter 3

Note: The third movement of a four-movement sonata is often a Scherzo and Trio, meaning there's a dramatic section followed by a sweet, delicate section, and then the first section is repeated. I decided not to indicate the transitions between sections in the story because I think it would break the flow, but hopefully, it's fairly clear on its own. _Allegro con fuoco_ is to describe the passionate scherzo and _andante cantabile_ is the pretty trio.

Additional notes about this chapter are at the end.

* * *

Third movement: _Allegro con fuoco/Andante Cantabile_

The kids stared at him. Chiaki wished they would chatter or doodle instead of scrutinizing him with such blank intensity. He missed the blinding lights of the stage, which hid the audience in a sea of darkness. He hated how close the first desks were to his restricted performance space and how he could hear Nodame's fingers tapping on the keys as she silently rehearsed her part.

Truth was, virtuoso Chiaki Shinichi was deathly afraid of performing. Critics and fans thought his cool, detached demeanor was a mark of style and confidence; his father and conductor had unfortunately noticed that it was in fact a defense mechanism to avoid interacting with his audience and collaborators. And if he couldn't even perform for some schoolchildren, the Tokyo Metropolitan Symphony Orchestra would be forced to make him an alternate and send him off to study in Canada. Fear of airplanes aside, he was determined to do anything to avoid becoming a hermit hidden away in an igloo with francophone polar bears for the rest of his life.

All he had to do to pass the test was obtain "concrete evidence of the children's appreciation." Unfortunately, the official thank you letters and emails sent by principals of schools he had visited so far were not deemed sufficient.

Chiaki took a deep breath and glanced at each of the small foreheads for a second each, creating the illusion of eye contact. Then, he gave his best smile and lifted his violin. He nodded to Nodame, then retreated to the familiar realms of his music.

The bubble popped within the first notes of the piano introduction. Chiaki glared at her as she squinted at the score, mouth puckering. He chanced a glance at the audience and wished he hadn't, when he saw the looks of utter confusion and disgust. Heart pounding, Chiaki began without waiting for his cue; it would probably never come. He tried to create his safe place again, conjuring images of European castles and boundless lavender fields and majestic mountains that were his alone to explore.

 _Clang._

The broken string rattled through the air and the illusion shattered. Nodame groped around for the next chord and Chiaki simply played on, barreling through his part mechanically, as he did all he could to hold on to the notes under the unbearable stares of the children. Chiaki was an experienced musician; he had back-up plans for just about every accident that could happen on stage, from an utter blank-out to getting out of time with the orchestra. Unfortunately, he had never been trained to perform with what seemed like an obnoxious five-year-old hammering haphazardly on a keyboard with the sole purpose of sabotaging him. But that wasn't an insurmountable challenge; he focused on his part, counting on her to catch up even though he knew she wouldn't.

What really got him was when the tears plopped onto the yellowing, chipped keys, starting as one fat drop, like the first harbinger of a storm, then two and three and eventually a flood, like those spring showers that were awfully romantic in movies, and downright horrid when one was in the street with a new coat, loose sheet music, and no umbrella.

As he was too busy thinking all this and butchering the cadenza, Chiaki didn't manage to run out and catch her when she fled. The kids seemed to want him to follow her, though, as the class erupted into _boos_ and jeers and the thud of crayons—and a baseball—flying into the chalkboard behind him. As Chiaki Shinichi, top graduate of the nation's most prestigious music conservatory and former star of the Tokyo Metropolitan Symphony Orchestra, fled the dusty little kindergarten classroom, he reflected that this was the first time he had ever been booed off the stage.

He headed straight for the inn and took a long shower. The water ran cold after a while, but he stood there anyway, as the stream numbed him and almost took his mind off the disaster and its implications. He had wanted to cry at first, but eventually triumphed over the instinct out of desperation to retain some vestige of the strong, infallible man he had always wanted to be. The desire to scream and sob was replaced by a different sensation begging release from his chest, and he was forced to turn the water off by a string of three sneezes. By the time he had dressed, brushed his hair, and sat staring out the window for a while, the sun had set.

Chiaki sighed. He wondered how he ever dreamt that a rural kindergarten teacher—Nodame, no less—would have been able to master the pieces in a few hours. Come to think of it, she didn't even have a few hours, as she would have been teaching. Chiaki smiled at his folly. He had endured two months of humiliation simply to suffer more when he returned. He wondered what they would tell the media. He wondered how they would select his replacement. He wondered what his professors and classmates in Canada would think of him, if they knew he had been booed off the stage by six-year-olds.

But come what may, Chiaki Shinichi was a responsible man. He slung his violin case over his shoulder, perhaps just to feel its weight against his back as he returned to the deserted battlefield. No matter what happened, he should at least say goodbye to the last school and teacher who had tried to help him.

The field was thankfully empty, but the lights were off inside and he realized it was past school hours. Of course; just because the sky had fallen down on him didn't mean time had stopped for the whole world. His feet took him closer to the building anyway and led him on a slow circle through the overgrown grass surrounding the school. The scent of the sea hung in the twilight. He could hear the turning of bike wheels on the trail behind him and the faraway laughter of children and the soft tones of a piano that sang, as if from the amber sky.

Chiaki paused. _What?_

It was definitely there, and as his mind focused, he realized the music came from nearby. It wafted gently through the fading light, encompassing everything like sunlight or wind or the ripple of waves on the shoreline—beautiful, integral, but so natural and simple and _right_ that one simply took it for granted.

Chiaki, however, was too much of an artist to let anything beautiful escape his scrutiny. He skirted the building, pausing only when he stood outside the one open window—the one he had opened just that morning—from which emanated the most glorious music he had ever heard.

The door was unlocked and Chiaki held the handle, shutting it gently to prevent it from slamming. He approached the classroom slowly, partly to minimize the noise of his footsteps and partly out of trepidation. It was inexplicable, but a slow burn melted through his being as he asked himself who it could be, half-suspecting the answer and half-fearing that the music would end when he arrived, because he imagined that angels would disappear before they let themselves be sighted by mortals. His heart beat in his chest, pulsing through his fingertips—not enough to nauseate or become overly distracting, but pleasurably, as if reminding him he was alive and on the unhurried, yet sure, way to bliss like a long, sweet kiss before orgasm.

At least, he imagined it would feel as he currently did, just as one knows intrinsically the warmth of a true smile and the pull of profound music and the smell of the dirt after rain. And Chiaki wondered if the worn, shabby piano had suddenly become a Steinway, and knew intrinsically that he would never pull such light, yet profound, yet euphoric tones from any Steinway and the beauty of the music he heard came not from the quality of wood and plastic, but from the pulse and yearning of a being who had been born with something Chiaki would never attain no matter how hard he tried to channel his soul through an instrument.

He was afraid to look. It was the feeling he sometimes had just before taking a bite of a mille-feuille pastry—he wanted it so desperately, yet feared that it would fall short of his expectations precisely because he loved it so well; he feared to ruin its perfection and almost wished to walk away so it could remain pristine; he feared it would not be worth the mess. Except this time, standing just outside the classroom, the palpitation was infinitely worse. This time, Chiaki knew that he had fallen for whoever it was on the other side of the wall.

He always thought his standards were too high and was afraid he had caged himself in too much to ever fall in love. He wanted someone pretty; that was for sure. But all of a sudden, as he stood in the doorway and regarded the girl at the piano, he found that the chubbiness of her cheeks and the pimples on her chin and the slight slouch she had on the bench didn't matter so much when her hair glowed like whiskey in the light; when her lips, pink showing through the faded red lipstick, parted as she breathed; when her fingers danced on keys with mesmerizing technical excellence and some ethereal quality that sent a pulse—a throb—through his being and evoked a sense of euphoria, ecstasy, vertigo. She was something that transcended beautiful and all of a sudden none of those expectations about looks or education or intelligence or anything mattered anymore.

He stood there, star struck, as the music flowed from her being, enveloping the small, cluttered, yet suddenly glorious room. Her music seemed to make the fading reds and blues of the twilight more vibrant, more alive. They streamed in through the open window, waltzing with the floating dust and dandelion fluff that glowed rusty gold in the light.

 _Religioso_.

He knew he was on the verge of sin. He was about to mar the perfect beauty of the moment; the Chopin nocturnes were never meant to be played on violin, and her perfection would only become less with added accompaniment. But he couldn't just stand there and listen; the flood of sensation and emotion and adoration threatened to drown him if he didn't do something with it, didn't make himself a part of it. He felt he had to make it palpable somehow even if he made it less, or he risked being the silver wire through which lightning could flow without once noticing. If the current had to flow through him, he would rather keep a bit for himself.

He set the case on the floor and freed his instrument. He picked up the melody at the transition between sections and suddenly the soft, rich tones of the piano were complemented, not diminished, by the plaintive song of the violin. She showed no sign of surprise—just played, passion and delicacy and lust for beauty becoming magnified and focused by Chiaki's singing line. It was as if he were her accompaniment, even though he played the melody; perhaps she was simply not meant to be anything but the focal point.

He had never read a score for his part, nor practiced it, nor analyzed it. He had explored this nocturne on piano, once, and now played from simple instinct, with terrifying abandon. It felt wrong; he didn't know what to do. But his fingers somehow knew and it felt strangely right, because _she_ played as if it were the most natural thing in the world—and he realized that perhaps it was, for it was the only thing in their little world of dust and heartbeats and light that scattered across the wooden floors, falling crimson on the far wall.

He let the music—their music—transport him, gave himself up to the euphoria of the sound flowing between them, noticed how beautiful she really was only as an afterthought to the music she created, for there was all her soul and all she needed to say.

He didn't notice they had stopped until he remembered to breathe. And when he did, the light had died and the magic was gone. She lowered the lid and stood up. Their eyes met and there was an exchange of understanding, a sudden flare of that magic again, and then it was gone for good. She walked past him, close, but not quite brushing. He left as soon as he heard the front door close.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed that. I realize the prose may have been a bit dense this chapter, but I would appreciate any constructive criticism!

FYI, the nocturne I had in mind for this chapter is op. 37 no. 2 in G minor. Although not a scherzo and trio, it is in a similar form, with a dramatic opening and closing section and a slower middle. I am always moved by the middle section and to me, there is truly something spiritual and almost religious about it, which is why Chiaki thinks " _religioso_ " when he hears it. There is, however, another nocturne that also has a beautiful middle section that is actually marked _religioso_ , if you're curious.

-Proud Chopin fangirl


	4. Chapter 4

4th movement: _Allegro allargando_

Chiaki woke up the next morning at 5:52. He dressed slowly, deliberately, and scrutinized the dingy room for anything he may have forgotten to pack into his meticulously tidy suitcase. He knew he would find nothing—he had barely unpacked—but he continued biding his time, as if waiting for something to happen in the few minutes he hoarded, minutes robbed from the frenzied exactitude of his normal life. But the schoolyard was quiet and the streets were empty, save for the tumbleweed scuttling across the dusty path.

He left the shabby room, handed in the key, and dragged his suitcase over the pebbly road to the station, mechanically, heavily. He was loath to leave the shabby town; however hopelessly and laughably, he had hoped—what? He didn't know, or wouldn't admit to what he hoped. Perhaps he hoped to hear her play again, or see her just to test if his heart would throb in that addicting vertigo again. Either way, it would lead to nothing—nothing.

He ordered coffee on the train and declined his usual sugar and cream. As it sped away, he watched the liquid slosh dangerously in the cup and forced himself not to look out the window at the retreating seaweed farms. If there was anything worth regretting, he reasoned, it was perfectly beautiful in his memory; looking back at the reality of it in the daylight would take away even that.

The next weeks were spent rehearsing all day and practicing all night. It wasn't that he was behind in rehearsal that he needed the extra time alone; rather, he simply did not know what to do with the extra time—freedom bewildered him. Observers, such as the reporters and critics who were allowed in for previews, thought Chiaki Shinichi was the future of the Tokyo Metropolitan, full of talent and boundless potential. A select few knew that this was his swan song, and Chiaki could feel it every time they hushed up as he walked by. Chiaki came to detest swans, in those two weeks. 

It was an hour before the concert.

Chiaki sat in the dressing room, ready to get it over with. He was aware of the squeezing, pulsating sensation in his gut and the overwhelming terror that threw his heart into a nauseating rhythm, but everything was clouded over by a numbness, an impatience with the whole affair. It didn't matter, anyway—after he gave the most evocative, moving, brilliant performance of his life, he would be presented with some inane, hollow "token of appreciation" and sent on his way to a "bright future" in Canada. So bright, in fact, that Chiaki prepared himself to be blinded by the snow. Then, in the obscurity of backstage he would hear someone announce the opening of auditions, out there in the spotlight he once took for granted. The audience would applaud; perhaps there would be some murmurs of regret, but his name would be forgotten come next concert.

He wanted to scream, to punch a wall, to throw a tantrum. Instead, he lifted his violin on his knee and polished the lustrous wood, rubbing small circles over every grain. The doors of adjacent dressing rooms opened and closed and the hallway was full of the bustle and chatter of the other musicians, nervous and excited and bursting with all the usual thrill of the pre-concert frenzy, unaware that anyone so near could be feeling so differently than they. Chiaki hated it, yet when running footsteps approached his door, he found he much preferred to be forgotten than pitied. The clock-digital, thankfully-dumbly displayed 6:45. Chiaki sighed, picked up his violin, and trudged to the door, hoping to show the messenger that maybe he was a failure as a performer, but he still knew when he had to be backstage, thank you very much.

He jerked open the door. He caught a glimpse of papers and an afro, and promptly slammed it shut. He thought he had perhaps overreacted, and cracked open the door when he got over the initial shock at being bombarded by Masumi. He nearly slammed it shut again when he saw an eye staring back at him, but the timpanist's fingers gripped the edge of the door and papers fell down, stuffing the crack.

"Chiaki-sama!" Masumi pried open the door, causing the papers to spread out more and pool around their feet.

Chiaki backed away, letting the other man in. Avoiding his gaze, Chiaki picked up one of the papers on the ground. It was a simple piece of looseleaf, folded in half and covered in crayon-colored drawings. The paper shook in his hands as he unfolded it, enthralled by such trepidation as he had only experienced before opening his first music exam results envelope, or in the moment before his cue to walk on stage, or as he stood against a wall, about to look around the corner into a dusty kindergarten classroom in a seaweed farming village.

And, as with all those other times, the suspense resolved into cathartic bliss that flooded his veins and gave him such relief and happiness that he wondered if he had perhaps wandered into someone else's life by accident. For sure enough, among the crude flowers and purple suns strewn about the slightly crumpled paper were scrawled the messy words, _thank you_.

Ignoring Masumi, Chiaki knelt and picked up another, and another of the precious pieces of scrap paper, full of scribbles and dirt streaks and grass stains.

 _Thanks for playing!_

 _That was great!_

 _You were terrible, but for some reason, sensei has been much happier and she's even started playing again!_

That last one was particularly dirty, and baseballs were drawn all over it. The boy had even drawn two stick figures on the back, apparently playing catch.

Chiaki had never been so moved by any praise or reviews or thanks.

"Chiaki-sama is so great! You have so much fan mail; even our conductor and manager were overjoyed for you when they saw me coming down the hall just now." Masumi danced from one foot to the other, hands pressed to his cheeks in a ridiculous show of joy.

Gathering all the thank you notes up and shuffling them into a neat pile, Chiaki tucked them away into a pocket of his violin case and carefully zipped it up. He closed his eyes and thought back to the dusty little classroom and the moment came back, the music enveloped him, he could see her sitting there playing and once more, he felt the delicious, bubbling joy in his chest when she allowed him to share in her music. He knew what he had to do.

"Stop dawdling, Masumi. The show's about to start." Dusting off his suit, he brushed past the timpanist and strode down the hall towards the stage. Tonight, he would give the audience a performance-for tonight, there was someone he wished to impress, aside from himself.

* * *

Nodame hummed as she skipped down the path to the school. She wasn't, in fact, particularly happy that morning; not only was it six o'clock, but she had actually woken up half an hour earlier and was so restless she had resolved to get up. She skipped because the tune she was humming electrified her being and she could not wait to hear it again, feel it course through not the speakers of the old computer in the public library, but through warm, dusty keys into her fingers. She closed her eyes and stretched her hands out in front of her, mimicking the movements that would pull the beautiful sounds from the keys, softer to the touch and more familiar due to the layer of grime that most people attributed to common neglect. It was astounding how clearly she could hear it, almost as if the music pulsed more strongly within her heart as she got nearer to her instrument. It was just as she had heard it last night-the sparkling technique, the compelling dynamics, the wistful strains and swells of music that bespoke a sense of jubilance and freedom and…

Her memory became muddled. She was sure she had heard that triumph, that release and joy in his playing last night. It had been the epitome of showmanship, enveloping the audience-even those watching through a computer screen-with a sense of having a share in that music. Yet, this was less than that; the sound would be too quiet in a hall, too focused to touch every member of a thousand-person audience, too personal and tender to please critics, who would only hear an excess of rubato. It was how Nodame loved to play when she was alone, immune from the judgment of the cold, impersonal masses and the need to conform to expectations. But also it was infinitely more than what she had heard online last night, for this was raw, and pure, and only hers.

Her fingers stilled; the music ceased. She opened her eyes. Inches from her still-outstretched hands, at the door to her school, stood Chiaki.

He lowered his violin and smiled, somewhat sheepishly. His hair was tousled and there were light rings under his eyes, but standing there in front of her with the music seemingly still lingering in the air between them, he was possibly the most beautiful thing she had ever witnessed.

"Gyaboo…"

She wished she had something else to say, some way of translating her thoughts so that others would understand. She opened her mouth-

"You're gorgeous."

Her mouth remained open as she gaped at him, doubting her ears, yet knowing that her joy was real. Her insides melted as he smiled again, at her, and the ecstasy was bubbling up, making her chest tingle and quiver with something like laughter, but more tremulous, more exhilarating.

Before she could react, he stepped forward and pressed his lips to hers.

She froze for a moment before smiling into the kiss and wrapping her arms around his neck, breathing in the scent of shampoo and sheet music and train station coffee with a lot of cream.

When she finally pulled back for breath, they remained in their embrace and she rested her cheek against the hollow of his neck.

"What was that?" she asked.

"A kiss," he murmured against her hair. "Baka."

She laughed and the vibrations coursed through his whole being.

"Thank you," he said. "For saving me." He hoped she understood, for he himself was not sure what he meant. Perhaps she had saved him from polar bears and plane rides or the humiliation of a forced resignation or the criticism of the musical community-or maybe from a life of loving only half of his career and identity.

But either way, she shook her head-he tried not to shiver as her hair brushed against his throat. "No, I should thank you. I'd almost given up on piano before you came," she said.

He held his breath, waiting for the dramatic self-reveal that was sure to come. What was her past? What was the story behind this seemingly inane woman?

"But now that I've fallen in love, I could play all day!"

He slapped a palm to his forehead and decided that falling for Nodame was possibly the dumbest thing he had ever done. Especially, he suddenly remembered, since he didn't even know her real name.

"Uh…" He shut up and organized his thoughts a bit more. "Nodame-san. What's your real name?"

She smiled and stepped back. She held out her hand. "Noda Megumi. Pleased to meet you, Chiaki Shinichi-san."

His lip curved upwards. "I look forward to getting to know you." Out of all the handshakes he had shared, this was the warmest; out of all the times he had said that phrase, this was the most sincere; out of all the introductions he had exchanged, this was the first time he already knew the other better than words could tell, yet could not wait to know more. And as she led him down the hallway to his favorite piano in the world, he reflected that for once, sacrificing his sleep to jump on a train had been worth it.

 _The End._

* * *

And there you go! Thanks for reading!


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